


Off the Record

by runningondreams



Series: Out of Sight, Not Out Of Mind [4]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Loneliness, M/M, Nightmares, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-21 11:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: Steve can't sleep, and when he can't sleep, he broods. After too many nights of restless dreams and nightmares, he hopes Tony can be the distraction he needs.





	Off the Record

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cap iron man community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cap+iron+man+community).



> For the Cap-Ironman Community Gift prompts: “diner date, but one on good terms” and “secret relationship.” Set between the destruction of the mansion in Avengers: Disassembled and the New Avengers pre-Civil War team rebuild.  
> Many thanks to morphia for the beta!
> 
> * * *

Steve looks to the clock, and then to the diner door, and then his phone. No sign of Tony. Not even a new text message, just the same reply of _I’ll be there_ , time-stamped at 2:36 a.m. 

He spins his nearly-empty coffee cup between his hands and tries not to think about anything in particular, to just watch the contrast of the white mug against the speckled turquoise tabletop, tracking the shadowplay between the curved handle and the yellow glare of streetlights and store displays outside the window. The music coming over the speakers system is tinny and faint. No jukebox here, not even one of the fake fifties-style ones that play MP3s. Just some playlist of covers and instrumentals, looping on repeat.

Footsteps approach, but when he looks up it’s the waitress, bearing a full and steaming carafe of coffee.

“Another refill?” She smiles, despite the late hour and the fact that he’s been lingering for forty-five minutes now without ordering anything new.

“Thanks.” He passes the mug over and makes a show of studying the laminated menu anew. He’s one of only three occupied tables, he notes. The place had been nearly half full when he sat down.

“See anything you want?” she asks, handing back the coffee. “Pancakes? French fries?”

The laminte flexes under his hands, the overhead lights turning it into a wash of white glare and blurred images.

His stomach rolls. He can’t eat.

“Sorry.” He sets the menu down and offers her a tight smile. “Just the coffee. Thank you.”

“Still waiting on your friend?”

He sighs and cups the mug between his hands, letting the warmth bleed into his palms. “I hope so.”

She moves on and he lifts the mug to his face, letting the steam seep into his skin.

If he closes his eyes he sees jagged masonry and Vision’s broken body and smoke rising over the Mansion, an endless nightmare sprinkled with Ultron drones and Kree soldiers and too many fallen friends and glimpses of Wanda, her face twisted in rage and despair as magic crackles between her hands. So he keeps his eyes open, counting the tiles on the opposite wall and taking a sip of scalding black coffee every time he feels his thoughts wander. He needs _distraction_. This, a hot drink and bright lights in a public space, is only marginally better than sitting alone in the echoing cavern he calls an apartment these days. He needs something more real. 

A bell jingles—the one over the door—and Tony walks in. He’s cut his hair, shorn it down to dark fuzz, and his jeans and hoodie are on the worn and sloppy end of casual. Even his beard is only barely distinguishable from a day’s stubble. Steve would be willing to bet that no one recognizes him, not yet. The difference between Tony Stark: as-seen-on-TV, former Secretary of Defense and innovative businessman, and Tony Stark: halfway through an engineering binge, is a decently effective disguise.

Not that anyone else is looking closely, in a neighborhood diner at a quarter to 4 in the morning. 

Steve looks close enough to see the tape wrapped over two of Tony’s fingers—no splints, so probably just scrapes or cuts. Close enough to count how many times Tony marks the staff and customers and scopes the exits. Close enough that he spends few seconds wishing he could reach out and wipe the fatigue from Tony’s movement with a gesture. The man looks like he hasn’t properly slept in days.

That makes two of them then. 

“Hey.” Tony grins with genuine warmth as he slides into the booth. “Sorry about the wait. I was at the Coney Island lab.”

“Glad you could make it anyway.” Steve manages a real smile of his own, though he’s not sure Tony sees it, busy as he is with rearranging the preset silverware and coffee cup. “It’s good to see you, Tony.” Better than he expected. _Much_ better. 

It’s not _just_ a wish to banish the strain of a few sleepless nights, he wants to _touch_ Tony. Wants to feel his warmth and solidity and the steady beat of his pulse. He catches himself staring at Tony’s bare wrists, and then the line of his neck, and then his lips as he says: “Something on your mind, Cap?” 

“You,” Steve blurts. He can’t stop himself. 

Tony blinks and sets down the menu.

“That was direct. And also not the impression I got from your texts, or I would’ve . . .” He looks down at himself, then back at Steve. “Well, I’m not sure what I would’ve done differently, but probably something. Shaved. Worn a cleaner shirt.”

Steve shakes his head.

“No, you’re right, that’s not why I texted. It was just—an impulse.” 

He sighs and rubs at his eyes. They feel too-dry and gritty, and still he can’t bear to close them for more than a few seconds at a time.

The appeal of just losing himself in Tony thrums in his gut. The prospect of focusing only on the two of them together, on skin and lips and hands and pleasure. It would be good, even if he’s only known he wanted it for the last twenty seconds, now he’s actually seeing Tony, here, in the flesh.

“I wasn’t objecting, to be clear,” Tony’s saying, and Steve can feel the nudge of his knee under the table, out of sight because that’s how they’ve always done this. Out of sight. Under the table. 

Off the record. 

Maybe one day they’ll change that. Steve’s pretty sure he wants to. Sometime. When they’re more stable. But it won’t be tonight, under the glare of florescent lights on linoleum and heavy with the influence of too little sleep in too many hours.

“I wouldn’t want to drag you right back out after you just got here.” He presses his own leg against Tony’s, until they’re touching from calf to knee. “But in a bit, if you don’t change your mind . . .”

It’ll be good to have something in the interim, too. Some sort of contrast. Some conversation. He doesn’t want to link “sleepless nights” and “bad memories” to “sex with Tony” any more than he already has. 

Tony gives him an amused look, but whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the waitress’ return with fresh coffee and a friendly greeting. Tony thanks her and orders for them both: a burger for himself and an omelet for Steve.

“I’m not hungry,” Steve tells him after the waitress has gone.

“I’m not having you faint on me later, Winghead, I know how your metabolism works.” Tony gives him a pointed once-over and raises an eyebrow. “So if it wasn’t the other thing, why did you text?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Steve stares down at his coffee, unwilling to watch Tony’s face for this. “Bad dreams about . . . well.” He waves vaguely, in the general direction of the mansion’s ruin. “Bad dreams.”

There’s a beat of silence. He can just see Tony’s hands in his peripheral vision, clenched tight around his own mug. 

“Yeah.” It comes out rough and Tony clears his throat. “I know what you mean. I’ve had a few of those myself.”

“I thought it’d be good to be around people. Remind myself there are still—that we didn’t lose everything.” Steve sighs and takes a sip from his mug before finally looking up again. “And I didn’t really want to just people watch by myself. And I thought you might be up.”

“Generally a good bet,” Tony says, wry. 

And because he’s Tony and he has had those dreams and he does know what Steve means in a way that very few other people can claim, that’s the last mention of it. 

They talk, about Tony’s work on cell phones and about art—the new Met exhibit and a recent First Friday showing—and about music and movies and the qualitative, experiential difference between riding a motorcycle and driving a convertible. They eat hot food and for the first time in days it feels more like an experience than just swallowing nutrients because he has to. And when the food is gone and their mugs are empty and they’ve paid their bill and tipped the waitress he takes Tony back to his loft.

It’s not home. Despite its destruction, the Mansion still holds that place in his heart. He’s not sure the loft will ever really be home. But with Tony’s lips on his, and Tony’s hands slipping under his shirt, and Tony’s eyes glowing warm and intent in the rising light of dawn, it’s close enough. 

When they’re both sated, loose-limbed and curled around each other, he sleeps. He doesn’t dream.


End file.
